By midmorning, the Sweetbriar Stop & Go smelled like coffee, gasoline, and breakfast burritos—and if there was a more accurate snapshot of my life right now, I didn’t want to see it.
I stood behind the counter, ringing up a steady stream of regulars, smiling on autopilot while my nerves stayed coiled tight under my skin. The bell over the door chimed every few minutes, and every single time it did, I jumped before I could stop myself.
I hated that.
Nothing had happened. Not since I backed out of my trailer and practically launched myself into Aggie’s arms. No strange sounds. No shadowy figures. No red lights blinking in the trees.Just quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made every small noise feel deliberate—like the creak of the cooler compressor wasn’t just settling, but pausing to listen. Like the low hum of the fluorescent lights overhead wasn’t random, but rhythmic, almost intentional. I was creeped out and unable to shake it.
“You didn’t sleep again,” Elizabeth had said when I clocked in earlier, hands on her hips, head tilted, performing a slow and thorough inspection of my face like she was appraising a piece of furniture she suspected had hidden damage.
“I slept.”
“How much?”
“Some.”
“Becca.”
“A normal amount.”
“You look like a raccoon who lost a fight with an espresso machine.” She reached out and patted my cheek with the resigned affection of someone who had given up expecting better. “A tired, sad little raccoon.”
“That’s very kind of you, Elizabeth.”
“I’m not kind, I’m accurate. There’s a difference.” She turned toward the back room, then paused. “I’m making coffee. You’re having some whether you want it or not.”
“I already had coffee.”
“More coffee then.” She disappeared through the door. “You look like you need at least three more.” She squinted at my face, taking in the dark circles under my eyes, and muttered something about chamomile tea and bad decisions before heading to the back room.
Now I wiped down the counter for the third time in ten minutes, my reflection in the glass case looking thinner, more tired than I felt inside. Every so often, my gaze drifted to my phone sitting beside the register.
No messages.
I told myself that was fine. Normal.
Still, when the bell chimed again, my pulse kicked hard?—
And then settled.
It was Matt.
My brother stepped inside like he owned the place, badge clipped to his belt, jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes already scanning the room before they landed on me. Relief hit first. Then embarrassment. Then that familiar, complicated mix of comfort and irritation that only siblings can deliver.
“Hey,” I said, trying to sound normal. “You here for a burrito or a lecture?”
“Both,” he said mildly, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Thought I’d start with more caffeine. You good?” he asked quietly.
I hesitated—just long enough to be obvious—then nodded. “Yeah. I mean. I’m here, aren’t I? Working. Alive.”
Matt’s mouth flattened, but he didn’t call me on it. Instead, he tipped his head toward the back hallway. “It’s quiet in here. Talk to me. Fill in the gaps Aggie doesn’t know about.”
I glanced toward the door, then sighed. It was time. Aggie was right. I told him about the night of my podcast and what I saw. I told him about the trailer last night. About the porch light being off. About the way everything had felt wrong. How I’d backed out without even checking inside. Which was everything he’d already heard from Aggie.
“I didn’t stay there,” I finished, my voice low. “I spent the night at Aggie’s.”
Matt nodded once, jaw tight. “Good. Next time, call me.”
“I don’t know if it was anything,” I rushed on. “It could’ve been nothing. I um?—”
